


lines of dust and sweat (just to feel like you)

by FrodaB



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Codenames, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, Pre-Star Wars: Rebels, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrodaB/pseuds/FrodaB
Summary: Kanan doesn't know it at the time, but he won't be getting into any more bar fights.





	lines of dust and sweat (just to feel like you)

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly cribbed from the lyrics of "27" by Fall Out Boy, which is a pitch-perfect young Kanan song.

Kanan feels a palpable sense of relief when they touch down on Chazwa. It's been a long few weeks, most of it spent in hyperspace, which, while he doesn't mind spending lots of time alone with Hera, he knows when to back off before overstaying his welcome. He knows she's still figuring out where to slot him into her life, and he's not about to jeopardize this – partnership? Whatever it is that they've had in the couple of months since they met on Gorse.

Besides all that, their food stores are running low, and Chazwa is the perfect place to stock up after the long, arduous supply run which thankfully just paid off in a big way. Kanan only cares about money insofar as he needs to eat, and buy passage offworld whenever he decides to bail, but even he is impressed by the take from this job.

(He still thinks about the early days, sometimes, the way the hunger gnawed at his insides and made it nearly impossible to think about anything else; the desperation driving him to root around in dumpsters for something, _anything_...)

The credits clink in his hand, and he grins. Even after setting aside what they'll need for food, fuel and maintenance for the Ghost, there's still quite a bit here, and Kanan's got a serious case of cabin fever. 

“Don't wait up for me, honey,” he calls to Hera cheerfully as the cargo bay door opens.

“Where are you going?” she asks, looking up from the datapad where she's making supply lists.

“Just going to sample the local color,” he responds, by which he means, finding a seedy cantina where he can kick back and relax after a job well done.

Luckily, Chazwa is a relatively prosperous trading port with lots of smuggler activity and pretty far from the Empire's sphere of influence, so the aforementioned seedy cantina is easy to find and just seedy _enough_ to suit Kanan's tastes. There are the usuals – a couple of local drunks who've clearly been here since the place opened a few hours ago; a handful of laborers and itinerants such as himself trickling in; a sabacc game in one corner – the crowd is a nice, diverse mix of species, as well. Perfect for blending in, and letting himself relax.

Within minutes, he's made some new friends at the sabacc table, prepared to spend his hard-earned creds on cards and watery ale. Of course, then someone has to come and ruin it.

“Happy Empire Day!” An older human bursts into the cantina just as Kanan is about to lose a pretty spectacular hand, shattering the relative peace and camaraderie of the place.

Heads turn to take in the stranger, followed as he is by a couple of guys slightly younger than him but who are probably related – brothers, or maybe cousins. They're all built similarly – broad and stocky, with beady eyes and thinning hair. Most of the other patrons give them a wide berth as they approach the bar. They've clearly already been drinking for a while, and the locals seem familiar with them, if not friendly. The Empire doesn't have a presence here - _yet_ , and most here seem to like it that way. Except, apparently, these loons.

“Time to celebrate the Empire's great victory!” the oldest guy says jovially, and Kanan tries not to scowl. Being in hyperspace so long, he'd forgotten what day it was, and frankly wouldn't have expected anyone here to be particularly enthusiastic about the “holiday”. But these guys sure are, and Kanan does his best to ignore them, like most of the other patrons. There's no point getting huffy about the Empire, even way out here no one is likely to back him up, no matter how much these guys probably deserve a beating, or how long they spend crowing about the glorious _blah blah blah_.

Kanan learned a long time ago how to school his expressions, keep them neutral, not to rise to the bait. The last thing he needs is to get riled up about it. Blow his own cover, acknowledge the loss and the pain and the anger the Empire saddled him with. That'd be a fast way to get himself disappeared.

(Besides, it's obvious these guys didn't fight in the Clone Wars. They don't have that look lurking behind their eyes that so many vets do – that Kanan has seen even in the mirror a few times. These guys? Are just bullies.)

And then they start harassing the waitress.

She's a Twi'lek, because of _course_ she is, not that it matters, Kanan would be annoyed no matter her species, but it doesn't help that she looks about Hera's age, and even though she seems used to it, _he_ isn't. Besides, better to get mad at these guys for harassing someone than rising to the bait of their Empire-loving speeches. And he's on about his fifth drink by now.

The third time one of them tries to grope her, Kanan is up out of his chair and swaying over to them.

“Hey. Nobody ever taught you any manners, I guess?” he asks loudly.

The three guys look him up and down with unconcealed contempt. “Think you can teach us a lesson?” the older one asks skeptically.

“Sure, I haven't got any other plans,” Kanan drawls, then adds, “except to pay your mother a visit.”

Okay, so the three guys are _definitely_ brothers.

Being drunk doesn't really hinder Kanan all that much. His inhibitions are lowered, sure, but maybe that's the opening the Force needs, because he manages to dodge the worst of the blows, including a bar stool hurled at his head – though, as he spins away from it, a meaty fist connects with his nose in a sickening _crunch_ that sends spots into his vision and leaves his whole face throbbing. Still, in the end, he walks away – unsteadily, but on his own two feet – which is more than he can say for his opponents, who are piled up on top of each other in the wreckage of the bar, breathing but not aware of their surroundings.

Despite the pain and the blood on his shirt and the fact that he can't quite walk in a straight line, Kanan feels pretty cheerful when he gets back to the Ghost. He taught those sleemos a lesson, and Hera's probably in bed, so she'll never -

“Kanan! What happened to your face?”

Ah, hell.

He grins at her as best he can. “The local color,” he says, trying to play it cool.

She steps closer, the worry on her face beginning to shift to disapproval as she takes him in. “You're drunk,” she says.

“Very astute,” Kanan agrees. “I told you not to wait up – I'm going to bed now, you can lecture me in the morning.”

“But -”

“Good night!” he says cheerily, and slips into his bunk, palming the door closed with a woosh before she can say anything else. He doesn't even bother undressing before he flops onto his bunk, letting himself sink into unconsciousness – the dreamless sleep untroubled by nightmares or Force visions.

When Kanan wakes, it's to the sound of Chopper clanging around outside his door and chortling evilly. One of these days, he swears, he's going to disassemble that psychopathic rust bucket and sell the parts as scrap.

His whole body aches. His face hurts the worst, this is at least the second time his nose has been broken and he's familiar with that pain. But he's got bruises all over, only compounding the effects of the hangover. Shifting a bit, he notices some items left next to his bunk that were _definitely_ not there last night – a glass of water, some painkillers, a bacta patch from the first aid kit. And the smell of caf wafting from the galley.

When he hobbles in, Hera is there, quietly sipping her own cup of caf. She doesn't say anything right away, but her eyes follow him as he pours some of the fragrant liquid into a cup, and joins her at the bench around the dejarik table. 

“You going to tell me what happened?” she asks eventually, after giving him some time to savor the drink.

“Nothing important,” he insists, his voice a little hoarse – and muffled by the bacta patch over his nose. “Just some fun at the local cantina. You should see the other guys.”

He gives her the best grin he can manage, but it must not be very good, because her expression doesn't change.

“Look, it had nothing to do with -” he waves a hand vaguely around them - “any of this, okay? I didn't compromise you or your cause or your cover. It was a bar fight. That's all.”

“Is this how you lived, before we met?” she asks finally, while Kanan tries to focus on his caf and not on the way she's studying him. “Drunken bar fights?”

“Is this a lecture? Am I in trouble? Because I'm not interested -”

“I'm just trying to understand you, Kanan.”

“Well, don't,” he says, suddenly annoyed. “There's nothing to understand. I'm just a guy who likes to have a good time. That's all.”

“That's definitely all you want people to think of you,” Hera says quietly, but firmly. “But I've seen something else. I've seen the way you stick your neck out for people, despite your claims to the contrary. And you're good at it, too. But then you do something like this – do you really value your life so little?”

Okay, now he's feeling annoyed, and peevish. She's poking at things that Kanan really prefers to be left alone.

“I like living,” he says flatly. “I like it more than _you_ seem to, the way you keep antagonizing the Empire. You don't honestly think that'll do anything but get you killed, do you? In case you haven't noticed, the Empire _won_. There aren't any good guys coming to save the day.”

“Is that what the Jedi taught you?” she asks, and Kanan sucks in a breath, a little surprised at how easily, how _bluntly_ , the word passes her lips. A word he hasn't said aloud in _years_. He hasn't dared.

He chooses to ignore it.

“It's what _life_ taught me,” he shoots back. He pulls himself up from the bench, not really wanting to be here anymore, wanting to nurse his hangover in peace and pretend to be carefree Kanan Jarrus again.

He stops at the door, though, his hand gripping the metal frame. “I thought I was going to be one of the good guys,” he says quietly. “A big hero, saving the day. But I couldn't save anybody. I could barely save myself. The galaxy just doesn't work like that – if it ever did.”

“Then why are you here?” Hera asks him, and he can hear the sympathy in her tone, and it makes him grimace.

“I don't know. To try and stop you from getting killed, maybe. Or maybe to – try and hate myself a little less. What we did for Gorse, that was – a drop in the bucket, but I'd forgotten what it felt like, to know you're doing some good in the universe.”

Suddenly she's there, her hand resting on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, and Kanan meets her eyes again – there is no pity, just determination.

“Then stay, and trust me, and we'll find some more good to do.”

A week later, Kanan is slumped in the co-pilot's chair, the one he'd claimed as his own the moment he boarded the Ghost, running some diagnostics on the engine, when Hera slides in.

“Hey,” she says. “I've got a lead on a job. Some intel gathering, for that contact I was telling you about, Fulcrum? We're going to try for a broader push, across multiple -”

“I'm going to stop you right there,” Kanan interrupts, holding up a hand, and Hera looks... disappointed?

“Look, Kanan, I know you don't want anything to do with this, and that's fine, I can do this job by myself -”

“Whoa, there! I never said I was going to make you do it by yourself. Let me finish.” Kanan puts his hands on his knees, all business, leaning forward. He's been thinking about this for a while. “I want you to tell me what I need to know to run point on this mission. No more, no less. I'll go in, get whatever intel you need, you get me back out again. I won't get caught -” he pauses to give her a cocky grin. “-But if I _did_ , doing it this way means your contact won't be compromised. I can't tell the Imps what I don't know. Sound like a plan to you?”

Hera hesitates. “You'd put yourself at risk, for my cause?”

Kanan shrugs it off, adopting a flippant attitude. “Like I said, I won't get caught.” What he doesn't say - _yes, I would_. He doesn't have to.

“Oh, and we should really have some code names of our own if we're going to do this cloak-and-vibrodagger stuff. Fulcrum can't have _all_ the fun. We're on the Ghost, so why not be spectres? But I'm Spectre One, it's only fair.”

Something passes between them, and he thinks Hera understands. He might not be quite embracing her cause – not yet, anyway. But he's offering himself up, regardless. To take the risks. To be a decoy, even. He won't claim to be as passionate about this as she is, but this is what he can do. He can watch her back, and offer to take the hits. Because regardless of whether this is her cause or _their_ cause, he can no longer ignore it, no longer run from it.

Impulsively, Hera leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. “It's a deal,” she says, and looks pleased that she's momentarily stunned him into silence.

The next time they get paid, Kanan doesn't bother with the local cantinas.


End file.
